The Joke's On You
by Tifaching
Summary: Dean will never learn to keep his smart remarks to himself.


Written for this prompt: Dean is cursed that he can't get out of his pyjamas. Or like. Any clothes he puts on turn into pyjamas. Also it's winter.

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><p>"Joke's on you, you skeevy bitch," Dean yells at the cackling crone as she vanishes into thin air. "I don't even wear...<em>shit<em>!" Turns out the joke's _not _on the witch-ghost who's been haunting this particular stretch of forest in her festive Christmas nightgown after all.

"What the...?"

Dean kind of wants to duck behind the nearest tree as Sam's flashlight illuminates him in all his ridiculously garbed glory. That changes to really kind of wanting to deck his brother as Sam's lips twitch and he bursts into laughter.

"Not one word," Dean snarls, waving a threatening finger in Sam's face. Sam continues to roar and Dean's mood isn't improved by the fact that he doesn't seem remotely threatened.

"What...what are those?" Sam eventually spits out.

"They're pajamas, Einstein, what do they look like?"

"I mean _on _the pajamas! Are those penguins?"

Dean had only taken one quick glance down after his clothes had been cursed away, but it was enough to see that there are, in fact, penguins on the pajamas. Sledding penguins wearing Santa hats. The thought of penguins and sleds makes Dean realize how fucking cold it is out here and he shivers as he contemplates his next move. While he was initially glad that Sam couldn't see his feet under the layer of snow they're buried in, standing here until either he freezes to death or his clothes magically reappear isn't really an option.

"Dean?" Sam's stopped laughing and concern wars with amusement on his face. "Dude, come on, the car's not that far and those don't look very warm. Tell me you've got something on your feet."

"I've got something on my feet," Dean replies with a twist of his lip and he gets the first glimpse of exactly _what _he's got on his feet at the same time Sam does. The material that replaced his nice warm boots stretches at least three inches past the end of his toes and it flops underneath his feet with each step.

Sam lets out a strangled sound that he turns into a cough, and falls in behind his brother as he picks his way down the trail. When he catches sight of the back of the pajamas he can't hold in the guffaw that bursts out.

"This isn't funny," Dean growls and Sam just laughs harder.

"You've got a trapdoor!" he snickers and Dean glares over his shoulder.

"I've got what, now?"

"A trapdoor."

Dean just shoots him a _what the hell _look and Sam gestures vaguely at his brother's backside. Dean reaches around to feel what Sam's going on about and throws his head back with an aggravated, "what the everloving fuck?" His fingers are almost too numb to fasten the loosened flap back to its button, but there's no way in hell Sam's doing it, the unhelpfully amused bitch. "Stop looking at my ass, Princess."

"Couldn't really avoid it," Sam snorts and Dean's fingers still work well enough to flash the middle ones of each hand at his brother.

The wind's cutting through Dean and he tucks his hands under his armpits to try to keep them warm. His feet are a lost cause, soaked through in their thin cotton covering and he begins to stumble as he loses the feeling in them.

Sam's beside him instantly, supporting him down the trail with no trace of amusement on his face. "I got you, Dean," he murmurs over and over until the Impala comes into view. He quickly bundles Dean into the back seat and starts the engine before grabbing a blanket from the trunk. It's cold, but it'll warm up as the car does. If Dean's feet were dry, he'd just leave the p.j.'s on because his brother looks fucking adorable in them. As it is they have to go, and Sam pulls the zipper down and slides Dean's upper body free before pulling the soaked fabric off of his legs. Dean's pale even against the white leather and he shakes uncontrollably as Sam wraps the blanket around him. As Sam tucks in the last corner of Dean's heavy woolen cocoon, the blanket disappears and Dean's clad in red pajamas with scenes from "A Charlie Brown Christmas" emblazoned across them.

"Shit," Sam exclaims and heads back to the trunk for another blanket. This one turns into a fluffy pink robe with candy canes on it.

Dean looks at it and mumbles, "fuck my life."

"At least it's warm," Sam returns. "The car will heat up soon and we'll be back at the hotel in about half an hour."

"Can you park right in the room?"

"Dean, it's four o'clock in the morning. No one's going to see you."

"Not worried about that," Dean lies. "It's too freakin' cold to be running around in my p.j.'s."

"Yeah, whatever," Sam shoots back. "So tell me, what have we learned from tonight?"

"Fuck you, Sam."

"I don't think that's what we learned, Dean."

"Never comment on a witch's taste in nighties?"

"Bingo," Sam snorts, already looking forward to the next time Dean tries to dress himself. He's really hoping to see his brother in Grinch jammies.


End file.
